Deadly Drabbles
by Ensis96
Summary: A series of Next-Generation One Shots featuring lot of Legacy Brats, Slytherin Sneakers and everyone they know!
1. Table of Contents

_Hello! Thanks for opening this story. It's a spin-off slash self-motivator series of oneshots in my vision of HP Next Generation to help myself stay motivated for my main story, Death's True Hallows (go read it if you haven't yet!). _

_Since I'm expecting to write a variety of characters in DTH in various setting from background stories to alternate POVs, I'm not expecting them to be written in a real timeline. This Table of Contents is to keep track for me (and you) of what happens when so no-one accidently reads a spoiler, and also what characters to expect. _

_Ch 1- A Badger's Work is Never Done.__Rupert Tring: Hufflepuff Prefect and President of Hogwarts One and Only Dueling Club

_Ch 2- It's Not Easy Being Green: Halloween._ Priscilla Parkinson, 1st year Slytherin of Hogwarts

The tough, unflappable Role Model of Slytherin House wasn't always that way. When she first got to Hogwarts, she was completely alone... and far from popular.

_taking requests/suggestions for the next oneshots!_


	2. Ch 1- A Badger's Work is Never Done

**Rupert Tring- A badger's work is never done**

_takes place between around chapter 30._

_This chapter has MAJOR SPOILERS about Ch 28- grudge match. **DO NOT READ **if you don't want spoilers!_

_PS- the house hourglasses are mentioned in this chapter. According to the books, those hourglasses are filled with precious gems and mounted by Hogwart's main entrance. According to the Movies, they're filled with beads and behind the professor's table in the Great Hall. Being infinitely creative *Cough*-lazy-*coughcough*, I decided to make both true in my story. Enjoy!_

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ooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

For a Sunday afternoon detention, the students were actually being relatively well focused. Rupert Tring suspected it was because they'd finally gotten their indignant anger out, and were now admitting- at least to themselves- that the sooner they picked up their mess from the fight the sooner they could get back to having fun on their weekends and re-earn their trips to Hogsmeade. In fact, he didn't really feel a Prefect was needed to supervise anymore; the instant anyone started slacking off, another student was dragging them back to their feet with a cleaning rag or trash bucket ready for use.

The detention group had been utterly useless at the start of McGonagall's punishment. The few muggle-borns among them weren't enough to make up for the majority who knew nothing about applying elbow grease to a problem. Their idea of 'hard work' had been about two seconds of walking with a rag in hand and then being done. Eventually they'd put aside their moping and owned up to the chore that they needed to get finished- and almost been worse at the task, if that were possible.

As amusing as it had been for Rupert to learn that the detention crew was mopping before sweeping and dragging broom bristles between their legs as though preparing to take off for flight, Rupert had ultimately stepped in to help. He was supposed to only fill in for Craig, the Slytherin Prefect who was actually in charge of supervising this detention but needed to swap the chore for Hallway Patrol so he could finish an essay. But Rupert's gut still twisted in guilt when he stepped into the Great Hall; after all, _his _House and Club members had doubtless done most of the damage here. And their vengeance had been in _his_ name. The least he could do was teach his peers about the basics of cleaning. Such as, use the dustpan to pick _up _the dirt instead of leaving piles on the ground for people to walk through.

Currently, he was showing Mariah Daily how to hold a broom handle. His third year Hufflepuff was scrunching her brow in focus as she tried to learn the motion that was completely foreign to her. And they hadn't even started aiming for the dustpan yet.

The girl huffed and ran a hand through her pixie-cut hair, clearly discouraged that her pile wasn't pile-ing properly. She was a hard worker though and Rupert knew she had a positive attitude that would ultimately win over her frustration.

"You're doing fine." He patted her shoulder. "There's a learning curve to this stuff."

Instead of returning a smile Mariah frowned. "A what?"

"You know, a learning curve? Y = x^2? When the parabolic graph approaches or leaves the mirror axis it resembles a straight line before… oh, nevermind." Rupert sighed good-naturedly, once again reminded of just how different the muggle and wizard worlds were.

It was Mariah's turn to pat his shoulder in comfort; she'd never made any effort to hide how amusing she found his mugglese rambles, but she knew it sometimes made him homesick. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah. But Hogwarts should really look into at least a _basic _maths course."

She made a face at the idea- what little Mariah knew about math sounded like Arithmancy, and she'd heard horror stories about that class. It would probably be best to distract her Prefect before he actually made it to McGonagall with that idea. Thinking of the Headmistress… "Are you really okay? I mean are you… well, mad? About…?" She used the broom handle to gesture to the place that he'd been standing when Roxanne had spelled him, and where he'd subsequently laid helplessly through the entire fight. "They suspended your clubmates for defending you and- well, then Lysander was promoted instead of you… not to mention you were paralyzed as well for… well. Just trying to do the right thing."

Not again. Rupert sighed and scratched the back of his neck, knowing Mariah was asking out of genuine concern but having a practiced answer because so many people had asked him some variation of the same thing. Even some DDC members were still particularly spiteful about what had happened, and had only calmed when Emmaline Wilkes had been suspended for attacking Nott. Rupert knew he had to be particularly cautious of his words as he prepared to explain once more, to yet _another _person_, _that no he was not upset that he wasn't the one currently acting as Head Boy while Daniel was suspended. And that no, Lysander had not stolen the title from him. McGonagall had discussed her decision with both of them, after all, and it was still _temporary._

What he chose not to tell anyone was that Lysander's promotion was as much because of Emma Wilkes's suspension as it was the Head Boy's. Ravenclaw was short on authority figures, and- Rupert smiled as he remembered Lysander saying this himself- the Scamander twin was not very forceful by nature. With the continuing division in Ravenclaw House at the moment McGonagall had wanted stronger representation to keep the normally book-bound students in line.

Rupert had wholeheartedly agreed. He firmly believed that the skilled Ravenclaw House had been crippled in the fight because they'd been acting off emotion rather than intellect, their actual strength. If they took their time to plan an offensive he didn't want to know how efficient and devastating it would be.

"Keep in mind Mister Scamander," McGonagall had sternly told both Sixth-Year Prefects, "This does not guarantee you'll be Head Boy next fall as well. That post will still be open to all of the Houses."

Lysander had met Rupert's gaze for a moment, seemingly unmoved by the announcement. His peer was rather unmotivated by promotions, but Rupert was planning to give his all in hopes of having the position next year. Which wouldn't happen if people thought he resented Headmistress McGonagall.

"I _tried _to stop the fight," he emphasized to Mariah, for what must have been the billionth time. "Lysander _succeeded_. It makes sense for him to fill in for Daniel."

Mariah pursed her lips, no doubt having heard that before but still not buying it.

Rupert tried again "And Lysander's really fair to all the Houses, which is what Hogwarts needs right now. You know I can't resist favoring my baby badgers." He reached out and ruffled her short hair, making her swat his hand away with a smile. "And besides, I've got my plate full trying to keep the Dueling Club together without wands."

He tried not to let his own words get to him; DDC had really suffered. Between Sam's unprovoked attack on another student, and Nott and Isabelle- _both _of his Vice Presidents- playing such prominent roles in the melee, all DDC activities were being limited to when they could be monitored by Professors. Morale was down as the group lost the autonomy that they cherished in their training.

"What about Roxanne?" Mariah interrupted his thoughts, honestly not much concerned about his club beyond knowing that he took his job seriously. She elaborated on her own question, her opinion obvious in her eagerness for his agreement. "Do you hope she gets expelled?"

Rupert opened his mouth, then closed it, clearing his throat to buy time. Now _that _was a question he hadn't been asked before. And it demanded an answer he hadn't thought about. His gaze slid over to where Lily Potter and Hugo Granger-Weasley were doing their part to clean the Great Hall, grateful they were well out of earshot. He knew expressing that expressing an opinion would be too divisive. "She swears she thought I was going for my wand first-"

"So? You're a wizard." Mariah scoffed. "That's like saying she'd attack me for having a black cat."

Rupert chuckled, raising his hands in mock-surrender. "Fine, fine. Can't argue with you. All in all, I'm just glad it's not my decision. I leave that to wiser heads than mine. And jobs like this-" he picked up an abandoned dustpan and put it in her hands. "-to you."

After demonstrating the mechanics of angling the dustpan to pick up the pile of debris, Rupert wandered to find where he was needed most. Which ended up being a large pile of glass.

Rupert sighed as he looked down at the clear shards. After not one, not two, but _four _students had cut themselves trying to pick this up, he resigned himself to being the best person in the room to clean this particular mess. It was a guilty sort of irony, since the mess came from the broken Hourglasses that held House points. The fragile-looking device had proven surprisingly sturdy, not shattering as he would have expected but cracking and splintering into several large chunks. Even the Hufflepuff Hourglass, which had fallen completely off it's pedestal, was mostly intact. He bemoaned that the House Hourglasses in the Great Hall were filled with annoyingly small beads instead of actual gems like the Hourglasses in the Entrance Hall, but there was nothing for it except to get to work.

Scratching the back of his neck and trying to convince himself that this wasn't some sick symbolism of how he'd failed his House, since metaphors didn't happen in real life, Rupert set to work. He used the larger glass pieces as a bowl to hold the smaller ones. The menial task kept people from approaching him, and let him properly consider Mariah's question.

Truth was, he hoped Roxanne Weasley would be expelled. He really, really hoped.

Which wasn't right, because Rupert was a _Prefect._ He was supposed to support Headmistress McGonagall's punishments, not decide them himself. Just because the Legacy redhead had attacked him- _in the back_\- unprovoked- _and broke his year-long winning streak in duels_\- did not mean that he had the privilege of being her judge and jury. But even before the fight, Roxanne Weasley and her cohorts had done plenty worth expulsion over.

Rupert had always thought James, Roxanne and Lorcan were poor examples of Gryffindor qualities. All the brashness and none of the honor, the serial pranksters had flouted school rules since they all arrived. The three of them had used the political standing of their heritage to escape punishment for the havoc they routinely wreaked for five and a half years. It wasn't right. It had made his gut churn at the very idea of their unfair treatment, but he'd had no authority over the Legacies that weren't Hufflepuff. And the two that were- he glanced toward Hugo and Lily again- weren't the problematic ones anyways.

The pile of glass he was balancing started to tip so he absentmindedly braced it, and hissed when he cut his thumb. Thankfully it was shallow and wouldn't need even a bandaid, but it was a reminder to be more careful of what he was doing.

Now that the glass was out of the way the next step was to get the hourglass back on top of its pedestal. The task that would have been minimal with a _Wingardium Leviosa _was a challenge to do by hand. He had to brace the bottom of the glass with a piece of broken bench to even get it upright, and then he had to awkwardly hug the top angle of the glass to grip it. This, he knew, was exactly how people broke their backs.

Joking aside Rupert was breathing pretty hard when he managed to succeed in lifting the eight-foot hourglass back onto its two-and-a-half foot pedestal. Maybe he should get into a workout routine, he considered as he started picking up the dozens of yellow beads that had fallen from the crack in the glass. He didn't want to be dependent on his magic.

...he could even put together a workout series for the whole DDC, he realized. Their obstacle course was great, but if _he _needed more muscle mass, his clubmates definitely did too. They could probably use a course to prep them for surprise attacks as well. But that would probably require at least a little magic to keep everyone safe, and so would have to wait.

The waiting was probably the worst part. He had to wait to see how strong Isabelle's punishment was, and he had to wait to get his own wand back, and he had to _wait _to see Roxanne bloody Weasley be expelled, since she was granted a grace period because of who she was, and ONLY because of that. There shouldn't be a single question about her expulsion.

The worst thing about all of this was how _little _Rupert felt like he could do. For all his supposed 'authority' his hands were tied in so many ways that he felt next to useless as he watched his friends take punishment around him. It was like being petrified all over again. If anything this whole mess had happened _because _he was a Prefect. If he wasn't a Prefect he wouldn't have been obliged to play peacekeeper between the School Houses, and never been spelled, and never gotten in this mess. And his clubmates- his _friends_\- wouldn't have jumped into the fray for vengeance. And because his friends were the best of the DDC, the only part Rupert was unapologetically proud of, the magical brawl was more harmful than it would have been otherwise.

He knew he wasn't in trouble for his actions. Rupert hadn't done anything wrong- not like Emma or Daniel, obviously- but it didn't much feel like he'd done much _right. _

The monotonous motions of picking up the tiny beads had been frustrating at first, but once he'd got the hang of a gentler touch it wasn't so bad. It still wasn't much more fun than a 52 card pickup, but seeing steady progress as he refilled the Hufflepuff Hourglass was satisfying.

He ended up continuing his work past the official end time of detention. Though most of his schoolmates fled the punishing chores as soon as the hour chimed, there were a few people though interested in finishing whatever task they'd started- or at least, taking an excuse not to work on their homework. Rupert wasn't one to deny hard workers, so because they still needed supervision he stayed despite his own essays to work on, looking up every now and then as he continued thinking.

The two people he thought had been true paragons of the fight were obviously Lysander Scamander… and Priscilla Parkinson.

Priscilla was a bit of an enigma to Rupert, he'd admit. She had no authority or allegiance to anyone that she hadn't chosen herself, and yet she was viewed with respect and outright awe by her peers. Hell, even the Slytherin _Prefects_ deferred to her. Her authority made her a leader in her own right, her skill made her formidable, and her anonymity had allowed her to move as she pleased without fear of endangering anyone other than her foes. Though she was suspended, fewer of her friends were suspended than Rupert's were.

He should have either been like Lysander, and gone for help, or more like Priscilla, and been more decisive. If he _had _been reaching for his wand as Roxanne had assumed he most certainly would have been able to cast _Protego _in time to stop her attack. Or if he'd stepped back, let the Head Boy and Girl take care of the matter like they were _supposed_ to, he would've been more helpful later if the fight had still broken out.

Though, Rupert doubted he'd ever manage not to stick his nose into other people's problems. Despite being DDC President he wasn't a fan of _actual _conflict and liked helping people reach peaceful resolutions. So not meddling would be a pretty hard step for himself, but maybe he should try it more. Not everything had to be his responsibility.

Looking up again as he finished with the last beads, he saw that he'd outlasted everyone else's work ethic. The last straggler was dumping their mop of dirty water into the giant barrels by the doorway before leaving.

Hagrid came in not a minute later and beamed at the sight of the Great Hall. Today they'd been easily twice as productive as any preceding detention, clearing and mopping slug slime off the ground. Rupert hoped they'd cleared enough space for students to sit at benches rather than pick up food in a buffet line as they had been. The giant man patted Rupert on the shoulder before picking up the buckets of water and making his way to the rest of his responsibilities, whistling his eternal good mood so it echoed in the empty hall.

Rupert turned back from him to look at his success, and then felt his spirits drop as he watched almost all of the beads he'd painstakingly picked up off the ground float up and defy gravity, resetting into the top half of the hourglass. All his work to put the Hufflepuff artifact back together was being mocked by a reminder of just how many points his House had lost.

It was just irony, or himself feeling dramatic, Rupert reminded himself as he left the Great Hall through one of the side entrances, because _real _Life. Did. Not. Have. Metaphors.

As soon as he stepped out of the door a sharp _crack _like a gunshot went off, followed in rapid succession by three more that echoed slightly. His hand instantly went to his pocket and came out empty as he turned on the spot, looking for the source of the sound.

"Ahem. Young Master," said a high squeaky voice from below. Rupert blinked down at an elephant eared, portly house-elf with graying hair. "Greetings."

The last word was echoed by two of the three other elves behind him, all of them looking up at him with unblinking eyes. Rupert had never seen a house-elf before, though he knew _of _them_. _They had startlingly different features, the one who had first spoken a bit pudgy around the middle having hanging cheeks not too unlike a bulldogs. The others were notably skinnier and had startlingly different features: one had a wart on his nose that made Rupert remember the witches in his mundane storybooks, another had startlingly knobby hands wrapped around a frying pan he'd brought with him, and the last wasn't quite managing to look up from the ground but clearly- Rupert tried not to stare- seemed to be missing a good chunk of his left ear. Each were all sporting some manner of toga-esque wraps like tiny Romans, though they were made of a soft material that medieval ages could only have dreamed of and lined with singular threads of a different color. Other than that their only other similarity was their eyes, which were like giant headlights bearing down on him and had not paused to even blink as he spent what was probably too long looking them over.

"Um. Hello." Rupert had to tuck his chin almost to his chest to look at them, and wondered if he was really that tall or if the elves just didn't have a concept of personal bubbles. He half-waved at the group as he tried to hide how surprised he was. "Can I, uh, help you?"

"Oh you already did!" the pudgy one that had spoken before beamed up at him, grabbing his toga like a businessman holding the lapels of a suit. "Quite effectively. I am Bodialis, and my associates and I approached in order to-"

"Thank you!" the one with the frying pan announced like a bomb going off, seeming to think that his more eloquent companion was taking too long. The last two apparently agreed, physically launching towards Rupert. One of them grabbed his hand and started kissing the back of it, a task that was actually somewhat impressive considering the hook-nose that looked like it should be in the way, while the other silently fell at Rupert's feet. If he'd had his other ear it would have impaled Rupert's knee.

"We are so grateful-"

"-thank you thank you thank you-"

"AHEM." Bodialis said the word loudly to get the others to quiet down, but made no move to extract them from their chosen tasks. "As they said, we are here to show gratitude."

"I- I gathered," Rupert managed to say after gaping at his own situation, immensely glad no one was around to see the pure awkwardness of this. Or maybe they would have a helpful suggestion for what the proper wizardly response would be; Rupert had never learned much about House-Elves, since he was Muggle-born and would likely never employ one. He looked down the hall and finding it empty really wasn't quite sure if he was relieved or disappointed. "What, ah, what exactly are you thanking me for?"

"For your assistance in the Great Hall," Bodialis said as though it were obvious. "The other Young Masters were clearly… experiencing difficulties."

The one that had exploded with excitement earlier shuddered. "Scrubs thought they'd never get it clean."

"All I did was show them the basics," Rupert protested, almost jumping again when the elf at his feet gripped his ankle. "It really wasn't a big deal, anyone could have done it."

"But you-" the one kissing his hand stopped to lay a particularly long and uncomfortably wet kiss on the back of his palm, then reached for his other hand. "-did!"

"Scrubs wanted to," the other spoke up even as he hid his face behind the frying pan, and Rupert belatedly realized that 'Scrubs' was speaking in the third person for some reason. "But Scrubs couldn't. Headmistress said so."

They all nodded grimly, and then Bodialis took the liberty of explaining "Headmistress McGonagall was very firm in her orders: until the Young Masters clean the mess they made themselves, us elves were not supposed to set foot in the Great Hall." He looked to the door Rupert had walked through mournfully, as though it were a casket instead of an anchway. The Hufflepuff Prefect realised this little 'ambush' had happened because they were so serious about McGonagall's orders they wouldn't break it even to say a simple thank you. "The cooks have been inconsolable, having to make such simple foods and then not even being able to observe if the Young Masters enjoy them."

"Oh." Rupert hadn't even thought of how _their _work must have been inconvenienced, and felt a fresh twist of guilt. "Well, they shouldn't have worried; really, it wouldn't be a bad thing for us to just have sandwiches until the holiday break-"

"Young Master doesn't like our cooking?"

He instantly knew he'd said something wrong when they all wailed as though pained, though he was relieved his hand was finally released as that elf stepped away.

"Scrubs didn't cook well enough." Scrubs's eyes were watering. "Scrubs is a bad elf!"

Before he could react the elf threw the frying pan to the ground- directly onto his left foot. He howled with pain and hopped for a moment, then swallowed back his cries even as his eyes watered. "Scrubs is a bad cook." the elf wailed as he picked the pan up again and- before Rupert could do more than pick up his dropped jaw- smacked himself with his frying pan hard enough to make an '80s cartoon wince. Scrubs got up, shook himself, and merely adjusted his grip on the handle. "Masters would rather have- have- _sandwiches!_"

Rupert finally got over his shock and tried to move forward to stop Scrubs from hurting himself further, but was shackled by the elf still at his feet. He couldn't get anywhere as he watched Scrubs smack himself again, and again, the clang of metal-on-bone echoing around.

"Apologies," Bodialis said, his voice a bit heavy. "Scrubs's last master was rather keen on self-punishment."

"Self…?" Ooh boy. Rupert would definitely have made time to learn about House-Elves if he'd known that an ill-placed word could cause _this_. He kept wincing at every clang and practically pleaded "Aren't you going to stop him?"

"I don't have Master authority… It would help if you ordered Scrubs to make something for you." Bodialis said, then added hurriedly "If the Young Master wouldn't feel inconvenienced by doing so, of course."

"'Make me' something? Like what?"

"Something to eat. Scrubs is one of our bakers."

"I like muffins," Rupert said, and the wailing cries and banging fists immediately stopped. He cleared his throat and said a bit more directly "Scrubs, next time you make muffins, could I please try one? I'd really like that." He said the last sentence tentatively, not really comfortable giving an outright order to someone he'd just met.

Scrubs had peaked out from behind his frying pan and blinked in surprise at the request, and Rupert almost worried he'd done something else taboo until the elf stuttered. "Y-yes, Master! Scrubs promises!"

The elf disappeared with another gunfire-sharp crack, kitchen-tool-turned-torture-tool and all, and Rupert decided that his own exit was pretty overdue. "Anyways," He said, trying to step back and stumbling a bit when the elf at his feet _still_ proved reluctant to let go. "It was nice to meet you but I, I really do need to get back to my room. I've got essays and tests and stuff but, thank you, for your gratitudes and- have a nice night-"

"Of course Young Master, we understand entirely." Bodialis stepped forward, pulling at his companion's elbow until he released Rupert's feet and got up from the floor. "Young Master has a very busy schedule, learning and Prefecting-"

Rupert blinked down at his shoes once they were visible again. Had- had that elf _polished _them? They weren't even supposed to shine, how did he _do_ that?

"-be sure to inform us if there is any action we can partake in to aid your endeavors next detention." Bodialis beamed. "Just call for Scrubs or I, anywhere, and we shall come."

"Next-?" There wasn't going to be a next time. Rupert had only been filling in for the task today, yet those words choked his tongue as he was once again pinned by big, gleaming pairs of eyes. Good god they were like a herd of Bambi's, all big and moist and glowing with their gratitude.

Rupert really hated letting people down. And even if these particular people were small and for some reason polished shoes, they were clearly devoted to their work. And even if he hadn't literally _just _decided to stop worrying over the problems of other people, it was obvious that Rupert really was the best person for the job. Again. Rupert's shoulders slumped in defeat. "I'll let you know." he said, mentally adding the responsibility to his already impressive list.

When the Hufflepuff Prefect finally made it to his dorm, he took a moment to just sit on the edge of his bed and wonder at the ridiculousness that was his life. He kicked off his shoes- which really _were _shining somehow despite being cloth sneakers- and stretched out for a nap, needing a break before he could even think about actually learning something after that rather strange and confusing encounter.

Rupert woke up to the smell of fresh-baked pastries, opening his eyes to see a small plate with two steaming warm muffins sitting on his bedside table. He smiled. It was nice to know his meddling was sometimes appreciated.

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_Hehe. he gets them every day since. There is a lot of stuff about Rupert that just never makes it to the main story, and his guilt about the fight is something I wanted to at least mention but isn't important to Zoey's story .ever. And it stinks because he's an OC that has really just exploded into this awesome person. He wasn't even planned when I had him be a House Rep for Hufflepuff (for the record neither were Emma or Daniel. I originally just needed names other than Priscilla's, and they each exploded into their own persons. kaboom.)_


	3. It's Not Easy Being Green: Halloween

_Hey peoples! _

_So- I got like five requests for Priscilla-oriented drabbles. Which rocks, she is AWESOME and I love that ya'll love her too! _

_Grey Eminence (awesome reviewer, thanks chica!) specifically wanted something with her early days at Hogwarts. And I really wanna explore that part of her character, so I'm doing it in a series of shorts. Some will be from Priscilla's POV, some won't (Spoiler- this one isn't). They'll all be under the chapter description 'It's Not Easy Being Green'. ^.^_

_This one takes place in Priscilla's 1st year, after the Halloween feast and still before the 'event' that makes her famous. Enjoy! _

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The Bloody Baron.

People tended to forget the ghost was a man, instead seeing his shackles, the silver stains on his noble robes, and believed him only an era of a time gone by. A living relic with little connection to the present.

This was, of course, a fair assumption. Ghosts tended to grow… apathetic, to the plights of the living. Especially after living centuries around little children with their repetitious struggles into adulthood. While he interacted with them, it was more out of necessity for entertainment through otherwise endless days. The Slytherin ghost instead focused mainly on things far more important: The few others that lived as long as he, and- he rattled the chains he was willingly bound in, the sound as ever echoing a deep pain in his heart- his own actions. The Baron had ceased being swayed by the living a few decades into his death.

Of course, the ghost thought with a roll of silver eyes, that lesson was not one that all ghosts were privy to learning.

There was crying- _once again_\- coming from the second floor of Hogwarts.

Moaning Myrtle was a bane on everyone's sanity from the start of her death. The Baron had _not _been pleased to learn of her return to Hogwarts… some inordinate time ago. Despite his reputation for finding screams of fear and terror fun, he had been a nobleman first and foremost. The sound of maidens in distress forever grated on him in a truly awful way, just as it was uncouth for him to enter a ladies' powder room, despite his otherwise kind intentions. The dichotomy of emotions was not a pleasant combination.

He tended to avoid this wing of the castle for just that reason. But in the revelry of Sir Nicholas's Deathday, he'd fallen into an old habit. The old ghost chided himself for forgetting that and turned to leave, but paused. Because, after a moment, he realized that these tears were not the loud, irksome and self-pitying moans of melodrama that Myrtle had mastered. Those could be heard from rooms away. No, these- which had just reached his ears- were softer, but no less heartfelt.

He sighed, looking to the ceiling. A number of maidens tended to follow Myrtle's pointless example of locking themselves away in her bathroom to bemoan their woes. And a blond Slytherin boy once upon a time, who if he remembered right certainly _acted _like a petulant girl. He personally believed Myrtle encouraged students to come to her because she felt as though their plights vindicated her own moping.

As he thought, he eventually heard something else- voices. But these were not the comforting voices of a friendly ear. No, the Bloody Baron spun and floated down the hall with greater speed than his previous amble, these were a tone more akin to bandits and ruffians taunting a victim.

Turning the corner, he found a group of young students dashing by. They were turning about, clearly seeking something as they lit the moonshine and torchlit halls with lumos, until one of them gave a cry of triumph.

The successful hunter dashed behind a stone statue, his action causing a cry- one the Baron recognised- from a different person who emerged from the large shadow. The small, slightly girl was one he recognized as a First Year Slytherin.

Flipping a ponytail over her shoulder, she bit her lip as she raised her wand. "I'm warning you this time-" She said in a shaking voice, but didn't get any farther as another voice cried "_Expelliarmus!". _Her wand was struck high into the air. Without it, her red eyes and running nose seemed far more prominent.

The boy who had cast the spell- a dark haired, nearly as young Gryffindor- caught her wand on its descent. Finishing his approach from behind, he laughed. "What were you gonna do Parkinson, curse us?"

"You- you-" Still shaking her hand from his spell- still shaking all over- the girl bit her lip again to stifle a sniffle. "You'll regret this."

"Is that a threat? Or are you actually trying to be brave?" He scoffed, stepping forward and grabbing her sleeve. "What could a _Slytherin _know about that? You know more about traps and tricks. About- marks." His eyes flicked down to his grip, and he pulled her sleeve up. "Do you have a Dark Mark like mommy?"

The others- who had swarmed around the pair like flies- laughed in amusement, but the Baron had heard and seen enough. Even if he hadn't it was entirely improper for a man to lay hand on a maiden in such a way. Particularly not one of his House, whom he's sworn to look after.

He let the chill of his ghostly presence expand, his chains clicking and grating together as he folded his hands behind his back. The noise encouraged all of the living to stop and look his way.

"Damn," one of them muttered. "It's The Bloody Baron."

It certainly was. The title held far more meaning to the ghost than his living name did, and caught and held the eyes of that child as he approached. He allowed a small smile as the girl stepped back at his continued presense.

"Slytherin's ghost?" the Gryffindor mumbled, though he released his hold upon the girl's person. "What, don't have any living thing who'd bother to come help you?"

The victim ducked her head, but not before they all saw her bottom lip quiver.

The Baron narrowed his silver gaze, continuing his approach. The echoing rattle of his chains continued to steadily unnerve the children, causing them to shift their feet and step back. "He'll get a professor," another one mumbled.

Good- they needed just a bit more of a push. Meeting their 'leader's' eyes, the Baron laid an unassuming hand upon his rapier. It had been centuries since the weapon had truly posed any form of danger, but it still served as a reminder to all that the Bloody Baron had indeed lived in a time of massacre and survival, of murder and- he smiled fully with an expression Sir Nicholas often chided him for- bloodlust.

That seemed to be the last straw of their ringleader's sticking point.

"Let's go then." he said, shoving off from their target as he led a hurried retreat.

The Slytherin girl was smacked into the wall, but stared down her tomenters' escape, pointing her wand after them. It seemed the distraction of the Baron's arrival had been something she took advantage of in order to reclaim her weapon.

Good girl.

Her heavy breathing was fogging in the chill air that surrounded the ghost, but she wasn't looking at him as she lowered her weapon and slid down the wall she was still against. The small child pulled her knees up to her chest and hugged them, rocking back and forth in place as she resumed the tears which had first alerted the Baron to her plights.

The ghost wasn't sure if he should be annoyed at them, or relieved that the damsel wasn't in that sodding powder room. He eventually decided to stand guard in the hallway in case the young ruffians decided to return, still letting his hand rest naturally against his sword.

Eventually- as a ghost, the Baron couldn't care to assess if it had been a long or short time passing by his existence- the girl lifted her head to rub her eyes, then jumped when she saw he was still present. She scrambled to her feet, wand once again gripped strongly in her hand.

The small mortal had a defiant light in her face as she glared up at the floating bystander, shining brighter than the mess of tears and snot that still marred her strength as she said "What? Came for the show?"

As unimpressed by her as he'd been of her would-be tormentors, the ghost raised a barely visible eyebrow in answer.

"Whatever. Thanks, I guess. Though it's not like you were actually helping me." The snap in her expression deflated, shoulders slumping as she said bitterly. "No one does that."

She turned, starting to walk away- toward that blasted bathroom of Myrtle's.

The Baron floated ahead of her and cut off her path, taking his hand off the rapier but still shaking his head to the child. The flickering, subtle strength of this Slytherin would certainly be snuffed out under that useless ghost's coddling.

The girl took a few steps back in surprise, then scowled. She wasn't crying anymore, and she wagged her wand at him like a nanny's disapproving finger. "Look, you've had your fun, just- let me be on my way."

When she tried to take another step the Baron narrowed his eyes, once again expanding the chill of his death until her breath fogged.

"Fine- fine!" She said, throwing her hands in the air. "I'll go the other way, geez. What's another person to push me around?" she mumbled and turned once more.

"...Indeed."

She froze when she heard him speak- a common reaction, the Baron had found. The previously melodic and soft tone that had been his voice in life was reduced to a hoarse, grating whisper in his death. Like Sir Nicholas's forever partially-severed head, the Baron's throat had suffered hours of agonized screams before his death, and even without pain it was always a struggle for him to speak. As such the Slytherin Ghost rarely made the effort, leading to rumors that he couldn't speak at all.

The girl seemed to have been one who believed those gossips as she stopped on a dime, turning to look at him with wide eyes. "You- you can talk."

Such surprise was always an amusing exchange for the Baron, but when he spoke it was for a grander purpose than entertainment. "And you," he said with more force so as to reduce the innate whisper that his voice now held, "Seem to have a problem."

"I don't have a problem," she laughed shallowly, and waved a hand down the empty hall. "_They _have a problem. I haven't done anything _wrong, _but they still- they-" her breath hitched, but she seemed determined not to cry.

That was an improvement, the Baron nodded approvingly.

Encouraged, the eleven-year old maiden continued speaking. "They're just- it's pointless to talk to them! They're mean and they won't leave me _alone_. And they twist everything that I do so the school hates me and so no matter what I say I- I…" She stopped, staring at the Baron.

"And what have you done?" He asked in her silence. "Besides run- here," he glanced disdainfully toward Myrtle's bathroom. "To delay your problem."

"You're a ghost." she said the three words slowly, reverently in the manner of one who'd just struck gold.

The Bloody Baron sighed, wondering if he'd been expecting too much from this girl. She'd be well on her way to apprenticeship or marriage in his era, but professors of this time coddled youth far too much.

"You're a _ghost_," she said again, and stepped toward him. "You can't actually do _any_thing."

Stiffening at the insult, the Baron instinctively laid a hand upon his rapier once more.

The girl stepped back from him, then grinned. "See- I did it too!" she gestured to her feet, positively gleeful. The Baron tilted his head in confusion. "_Why_ do people that around you?" she waved her hand at him. "You- you send bullies running just by showing up. You didn't need to say anything, and people know you can't do anything- _I _know you can't do anything, and yet…"

She looked down at her feet again, frowning.

An interesting turn for this conversation to take. The Baron relaxed his hand once again. "What is your name?"

"Parkinson." she said, lifting her chin with a point of pride. "Priscilla Parkinson."

One of the Twenty-Eight Sacred Families. The Baron gave a respectful bow to her title, a habit ingrained from his life, and asked "What is the crux of your problem, Lady Parkinson?"

She rolled her eyes. "Like I said, it's not _my_ problem-"

"No." he said, cutting her off with enough force that she jumped in place. He waited while she composed her surprise, then cleared her throat.

"They're the ones that-"

"No."

She stuck her bottom lip out in a pout. "I just want to go to school and make friends, but they-"

"No."

"Look," she snapped, "I can't do anything about what they think of me!"

"No. But that," he said with a smile, "Is the opposite of a problem."

The First Year blinked at him in surprise, but when he didn't elaborate was forced to think for herself. Once again an inordinate amount of time passed, but at this point the Bloody Baron was fairly certain it was long past curfew.

"My problem," she said slowly, "Is that people don't listen to me. They don't respect me."

"Why?" he prodded.

"Because- because…" she frowned, looking down at her wand. "Because I can't follow through. I'm a _first year, _they're bigger and stronger _and _know more spells than I do."

"The Parkinson's of my day were renowned for their combat prowess and curses," the ghost mused, asking "Is it that you can not follow through on your threats, or you do not?"

She gripped her wand, then flicked it. A burning blue cobra slithered from the tip, the pure flame snapping with dark magic.

It was certainly weak, and when the Baron looked at the girl he saw her grip shaking with the effort to keep the spell employed for even this short amount of time. But once more, he saw the potential in it. Its power would certainly grow as she did.

She lowered the wand, breathing heavily for an entirely new reason. "I don't…" she mumbled, and watched the snake dissipate. "It would just be worse if they knew. Prove them right."

The Baron saw the concern, but once more made this child think for herself.

"They think I'm evil anyways though." Parkinson didn't even seem surprised by his continued silence now, choosing to speak. "And all that running has done is make them think…" She grit her teeth instead of finishing, admonishing herself. "A Parkinson doesn't run."

"There is merit in retreat," The Baron countered, knowing that doing so had once been vital to keeping his life. "But only when one plans to resume the fight on your own terms."

The First Year nodded, learning the lesson. She placed her hand over the hilt of her wand- possibly, the Slytherin ghost noted with amusement, copying him. "They're not going to stop on their own. At least- as a Parkinson," She said, pulling herself upright further. "I shouldn't be waiting for them to change. They're convinced that I'm dangerous and cruel and-" her shoulders dropped again as she said the words, but went on, "and that's something I should be using. Like you do."

It had been quite a while since someone had used The Bloody Baron as a role model, but the ghost was pleased to find the premise as honoring as he recalled. Even if a young lady should truly be more refined than himself.

"_Never _cruel." he corrected. "Do not dishonor Salazar Slytherin in such a way. Dangerous will suffice."

Priscilla Parkinson chuckled, smiling for the first time.

"Come, it is time for bed. I shall escort you."

The first year glanced past him to look at the entrance to Moaning Myrtle's bathroom. She turned on her heel a third and final time, clasping her hands behind her back as she walked with her house ghost.

"Thank you," she said, the words holding far more meaning than before.

Believing he'd spoken enough for one night- indeed, near more than he had the whole century- the Bloody Baron merely nodded back.


End file.
